Misfit Intermission

Mummy Misfit is approaching burnout!

I’ve posted a blog every single day since launching my book at the beginning of June and it’s starting to take its toll.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it was the only thing I had to think about but, of course, life’s not like that is it?

I spend a good part of each day promoting my book and working on my new one.  I also care for my elderly mother and crack the whip over a teenage son.  Somewhere in all this, I have a life too.  Somewhere!

So I’ve made the decision to start blogging weekly.  I don’t feel like I’m selling out as I did when I considered cutting back in the past.  I just feel I have to step back a bit to save my sanity.

And you wouldn’t want to be reading the ramblings of a mad woman anyway, would you?  Although, I admit, sometimes this blog has been a little on the wacky side.

So from now on I shall only be blogging on a Wednesday.  I’m hoping my lovely loyal followers, here and on Twitter, won’t feel that I’m letting them down, but I just feel that the time is right to take a change in direction.

I’ve not taken this decision lightly.  I’ve spoken to other bloggers and writers and I haven’t come across many who manage to blog every day.  It’s a huge commitment and, as I’ve covered a wide variety of subjects that continue to generate traffic to my blog (and hence my book), I feel I can now afford myself the luxury of taking my foot off the pedal for a bit.

Hopefully, if I complete this next manuscript quickly and get snapped up by a savvy publisher, I’ll have lots of exciting news to share with you and more time to share it.

So … remember, check in every Wednesday for a touch of Mummy Misfit.  Follow me on Twitter and I’ll send you a reminder.

This is not goodbye, just à bientôt.

If you’re going to miss my daily blog, why not give my novel a read instead?  ‘Diary of a Mummy Misfit’ is available on Amazon for Kindle, PC or Smartphone.  Check out my reviews, you won’t be disappointed!  Now also in paperback at Lulu.

Signing up for Strictly

So, ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ has started again - must mean winter’s on its way.

I’m not one of those who watches it religiously but, if we’re around, we like to see what’s going on in the glam world of sequins and stardust.

I’ve always believed that the programme could be taken further.  Why can’t we have a ‘non celebrity’ version?  ‘Big Brother’ and ‘Come Dine With Me’ can do it, why can’t ‘Strictly’?

This had me asking myself, would I or wouldn’t I?

THE PROS

The gorgeous outfits and the time spent in make up and hair.  OK some of the outfits are a bit OTT and I’d imagine it would take several hours to scrape off the war-paint and the fake tan before looking totally normal - but I’d lap it up. 

The weight loss - a real bonus for most of the contestants.  What a fun way to lose those pounds.  Even if they didn’t drop off, everything would be more toned and flexible.  Bring it on!

The yummy dance partners - a huge incentive.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking for romance or even a tiny flirtation.  I’d go for the ones with a sense of humour (they’d be dancing with me, so they’d need it).  Yes, give me Brendan Cole or Anton Du Beck and I’d be happy.  You can keep your greasy looking, cheeky slime balls - give me a bit of a laugh!

Meeting Brucie, Len and Bruno - how fab!  It would just make my day - or even longer if I survived.  Sir Bruce, at last - took a while but he got there in the end.  Len is just a legend and I want to give him a big hug and, as for Bruno, so rude and so funny all at the same time.

The satisfaction of having a professional teach me how to dance properly - what an opportunity!  Imagine.  The next time I hit the dance floor at a social occasion - I could wow people with my moves.  Dragging hubbie around the floor in my wake.

THE CONS (based on the pros)

Sooo … the outfits are great but they’re also quite revealing.  My legs are OK so, no problem there but some of them show bottom cheeks and belly buttons.  I’m not saying I want to be treated as an Ann Widdecombe or an Edwina Currie and disguised in floor length chiffon, but I’d be slightly concerned if I saw a G-string and a bra as my outfit for the week.

The weight drops off because of the sheer hard work and stress.  What if I couldn’t remember all the moves and made a complete plonker of myself?  I remember at drama school, I’d always get the dance routines in the end!  I’d never be happy with just taking the info and getting on with it.  I always had to perfect each move and then move on.

If it took me too long to pick up a move, would my gorgeous dance partner find that his sense of humour had deserted him?  I can just see myself being flung across the floor for the umpteenth time - but not as a sexy move, just in anger.  How long would their patience last?  And imagine the embarrassment of totally ballsing up on the live show - that would surely get you an Anton hissy-fit and a tongue-lashing from the evil Craig Revel Horwood.

The judges don’t hold back on their comments, do they?  I’m a big softie and if they said my bum wobbled or my face looked like a rabbit in the headlights, I’d probably just splutter and blub.  I just know I’d get that horrible hot feeling and go to pieces - not a good look with all that make-up going on.

The professional can impart all his knowledge and try to get me on track, but what if nothing works for me and I’m still pants?  Or … even worse … what if I think  I’ve mastered the moves and I go out there strutting my stuff with confidence and I look like a dork?  I then head off to my next social occasion and hit the dance floor, only to have everyone saying, “Mmm?  Didn’t learn much, did she?”

So, ‘Strictly’?  Would I or wouldn’t I?

You bet your bottom dollar I would!

Would YOU?

Diary of a Mummy Misfit is available at Amazon for Kindle. Now also in paperback at Lulu.

When Fiction Seeks Facts

Today I’m being interviewed by Libby, the main character in ‘Diary of a Mummy Misfit’.

She came to my modest town house and shared a coffee in my kitchen.  It was good to see her after taking so long to create her.

“So, Amanda, why did you decide to write the diary?”

Well, Libby, my son has been in private education since he was four and, like you, we’ve struggled financially.  I realised I had a wealth of information and funny stories at my fingertips.  Hubbie and I chatted and realised there was a book waiting to happen.

“So, does that mean it’s all true?

No, most definitely not.  My characters are a complete mish-mash of people I’ve met over the years and the majority of the events are figments of my imagination.

“As the main character, do I represent you?”

Now that’s a tricky one to answer.  There are elements of me in you and I most certainly had the feeling of ‘not belonging’ many times.  I’ve also had those feelings of being out of my depth but I think I’m really much more like Scottish Lou - the overly protective, paranoid mum … yes that’s actually me!

“You must have had fun writing the gorgeous Fenella?  Does she really exist?”

I loved creating Fenella - I think she’s an absolute hoot.  Of course she doesn’t really exist - she’s a smidgeon of a friend, a sprinkling of Margo Ledbetter from ‘The Good Life’ and a hint of Patsy from ‘Ab Fab’.  None of my characters are based fully on true life - that would be boring.

“Do you plan on taking your characters further in a sequel?”

I’ve already completed the synopsis and written the first 20% - some new characters and a slightly darker plot - but it’s on hold for a while as I’m working on a new project.  If a publisher decided snap me up and wanted a sequel, I’d knuckle down and get it out there as soon as possible.

“Does that mean you write quickly?

I wrote the diary in three months and then spent many months editing and revising.  I also completed word cuts and amendments for two publishers - this gave me the final manuscript.  Once I have an idea, I plan roughly and then fly with it.  I love it when the characters tell me what should be happening and I enjoy the surprises they throw at me as they take on a life of their own.

“What was your reason for publishing in your maiden name?

The honest answer to that is … I’m a coward!  I’m only in contact with one of the mums from my son’s prep school and she’s completely in the picture(she was the next person to read the book after my hubbie) but I didn’t want the other mums to know I’d written a book.  If they find out, that’s fine, but I just didn’t feel comfortable going public and having tongues wagging.

“Finally, were you ever tempted to let me have a fling with Pritesh?”

Ooh, Libby, you almost make it sound like you would have enjoyed it!  No, course I wouldn’t let you get up to anything with him - your marriage to Ned is far too strong.  Who knows what I’ve got in store for you in the next book though.

At this point Libby brought the interview to a close with a little blush.  Maybe she does have a bit of a soft spot for Pritesh?

To find out more about Libby’s life and the dramas of being a prep-school mum, head over to Amazon and download for Kindle, PC or Smartphone.  Now also available in paperback at Lulu.

My (not so) Sporting Career

My son is now happily installed in sixth form and loving the grown up feeling of being top of the tree.  His school phobia is a thing of the past (see older post) and everything’s going swimmingly.

Well almost …

We still have an issue with sport.

Due to his problems in the past, his school have been very lenient as regards his participation.  Being younger than his class mates, football and rugby have terrified the living daylights out of him - some of those kids are big!  He’s taken part in tennis and some circuit training but that’s about as far as it goes.  He’s a fantastic social cricketer (seriously, he’s a natural) but hides his light under a bushel and has yet to showcase his talents at school.

This year there are more options open to him - they have the use of a local gym, can swim and also take part in classes like Boxercise.

And yet he’s still squirming and trying to find any excuse to dodge it - I’m waiting for him to pull the ‘I’ve got my period’ trick because, trust me, that was one of my personal favourites and he’ll try anything!

Is it something in the genes?

Let me share my school sporting history with you and let you decide for yourself.

I once spent a lovely afternoon day-dreaming on the field during a game of rounders.  I was quickly brought back to life with a swift whack to the head by a rounders ball - they are hard!

Being tall for my age, it was expected that I would be good at netball.  By the age of nine, my classmates knew never to pick me as a team member.  I galloped around the court like Bambi on speed, totally useless but embarrassingly enthusiastic.

This led to the downfall of my sporting career.  I wanted to be good at netball and wasn’t, so what was the point in bothering with anything else?  Long jump would be my thing, I was told.  Long legs must mean you’re good at long jump, surely?  No, again useless.  Wobbly, skinny Bambi legs were just unable to co-ordinate themselves to do what they were meant to do, resulting in a flying leap of faith that achieved nothing but giving me a face full of sand.

Soon after this I cottoned on to the fact that girls were using the ‘period trick’ to be excused from sport.  The amount of periods I said I had should really have had the teachers seeking medical help for me but at least they didn’t have to waste any more time trying to find my sporting niche.

Cross country running in a gym-slip, Aertex top and bottle green knickers during the dead of winter is just cruel.  I can remember my legs resembling tins of mottled corned beef, my ears aching with the cold and my eyes streaming (not good when you’ve slapped on layers of black eyeliner and caked mascara).  Desperate times called for desperate measures.  Three of us decided that this lesson was inhumane.  So we took it into our own hands.  We’d set off with everyone else, make it look like we were in it for the duration and then hide in the bushes behind some trees.  An hour later, as the goody-two shoes returned to the starting point, we would time it to perfection and join them looking exhausted.  Many hours were spent in those bushes discussing the merits of David Bowie or Bryan Ferry - a much healthier way to spend an afternoon!

In my final year at secondary school, we were playing a netball match and one of our team members lost a rather unsavoury looking sanitary towel on the court.  This would have been embarrassing for her except for the fact that good old Bambi here leapt into the area just as it landed, so everyone thought it was mine!

Enough to put you off sport for life, I tell you.

I’m still hoping that my son will take the bull by the horns and get involved in some sort of sport this year - he’s a growing lad (tall and stick thin) and exercise will be good for him.

But with my track record, I’m not really in a position to lecture am I?

Fancy giving an eBook a go?  Check out ‘Diary of a Mummy Misfit’ on Amazon.  You can download to Kindle, PC or Smartphone with a free app.  Now also available in paperback at Lulu.

Careering Through Life

I’ve previously written about my dream jobs, and last week I wrote about jobs I’d never do, so today I’m sharing some of the more peculiar jobs I have done in the past.

Now I’m not saying I’ve ever been a chicken-plucker or a taxidermist but there are a few, how shall we say, interesting things I’ve done for dosh.

I worked as a dental nurse/receptionist part time while at drama school.  I’m terrified of the dentist!  I’m the world’s worst patient - and probably not the world’s best dental nurse.  I worked for a lovely Chinese gentleman who would always tell me to leave the room if things were going to get gory.  He knew that it was better to have me outside, than flat on the floor in a dead faint.

He eventually coaxed me into his chair and totally transformed my smile.  He would then cheekily inform patients that he’d done ‘everything a man could possibly do’ in my mouth! … He hadn’t!

One of the funniest moments was when he was injecting a patient with local anaesthetic and, just at the moment she grabbed his leg in panic, he said “It’s OK, you’ll only feel a little prick!”  An age old joke, but the comic timing was brilliant and it really happened.

We also got rather tiddly at a Christmas lunch and he decided that it was best not to complete any work on that afternoon’s patients.  So instead he gave them a compensatory glass of wine in the dental chair and kept telling them “Look, my nurse can’t even walk in a straight line!”  It was all very ‘Carry on Dentist’.

Hubbie and I once worked for one overnight stay as security in an old antiques market.  We set off with our duvet, portable TV and dog ready to protect the sprawling (and slightly creepy) property.  Hubbie did one round of nightwatch patrol (keeping in touch with walkie-talkies - we’re talking pre mobiles) and then we barricaded ourselves into the office, snuggled down with the dog and went to sleep!  If you want tough guy bouncers to keep a beady eye on your valuables, don’t ask us!

I’ve stuffed envelopes for a credit card insurance company.  At 5p an envelope, I would literally work through the night with my sister, brother-in-law and friends.  I could earn enough money to fund a night out in a club and a cab home.  The only trouble was I usually ended up walking rather strangely, as sitting on the floor working for hours on end played havoc with my back.

Hubbie and I modelled.  Now don’t get over-excited, we’re not talking Posh and Becks style.  We had a modelling shoot at a disused school in North London for … wait for it … industrial aprons.  They were heavy duty, dull fabric with multiple pockets for hammers, spanners and screws.  Some had rather alarming ties which went up through our legs and around our bottoms - a bit too bondage for my liking.  Once we’d got over the giggles we had a great day and were paid well for it.  We have no idea where the pictures appeared and probably don’t want to know.  We saw copies of them and, luckily, our heads never appeared!

Before we were married, and during another bout of redundancies, we set up a company called ‘Willing Wombles’ to survive and pay for our wedding.  We would undertake most jobs, big or small.  Our contracts included typing, decorating, dog walking, nannying and driving.  We were even asked to set up a crèche at a military wedding in the City.  Hubbie, sister and I had responsibility for 30 kids aged between 6 weeks and 12 years.  We called it ‘The Little Drummer’s Club’.  I was juggling the babes in arms, sister had the toddlers and hubbie kept the raucous ones entertained.  It was one of the most exhausting afternoons of my life but we were paid handsomely.  ‘Willing Wombles’ kept our heads above water and we had the wedding of our dreams.  Soon after that hubbie returned to work in the City and I fell pregnant.  The rest, as they say, is history.

So what weird jobs have you done?

Ever been a traffic warden?  Bet you won’t own up if you have, because you know we all hate you!

So, come on spill the beans - the dodgier the better.

Diary of a Mummy Misfit is available at Amazon for Kindle. Now in paperback at Lulu.

Normal Service Will Not Be Resumed ...

I couldn’t sleep last night.

And not because I was worrying about the animals in the rain or the homeless people on the streets - I regularly toss and turn with such issues on my mind!

It may sound daft to you (and indeed amuses my friends) but things like this concern me and I feel a bit of a rant brewing.  It will be short and sweet but I feel the need to offload.

Next year (April 4^th, I believe) TV broadcasting will be going exclusively digital.  “What’s so wrong with that?”, I hear you ask.  Technology, moving forward, crisp pictures with endless channels.

Well, I’m worried.

What about all those old people, just about surviving on a pension, still watching a huge-backed monster of a TV that they’ve had for some thirty odd years because it just never dies?  What if they have no means to upgrade?

This could be their only source of company during the day and the long nights.  They might well be watching the ads, which inform us of next year’s change, and not even understand the implications.  What if they have no one to ask?  Of course, the ads helpfully suggest they can go online for more information … get the picture?  Well, they won’t, literally.

We can’t assume everyone has 42-inch flat plasma screens, Sky, cable and the likes.  Many elderly people can’t get their heads around the new technology and prefer to stick to just the channels they know.  My mother has a constant battle navigating her Freeview recorder box and now leaves it to my son to programme.  And this is a pensioner with a close network of family who talk her (patiently) through things - what if she had no one?

It’s not enough to say that most people will be equipped and ready for the changeover.  I’m worried about the ones who won’t - either due to a lack of resources or awareness - as I don’t believe they’re a small minority.

I can’t bear to think of poor old Alf or Betty in their bedsit settling down with their beans on toast, ready to watch Corrie, only to have their lifeline suddenly blink out.

But there’s nothing I can do to help them because I don’t know where they are, these poor old people who’ll get left behind.

Now I’ve really made myself miserable and getting it off my chest has done no good whatsoever.

When insomnia knocks next time, I’m going back to worrying about creatures in the rain.

Diary of a Mummy Misfit is available at Amazon for Kindle.  Now also in paperback at Lulu.

His Tiny Hand

My son set off for his first day of sixth form today - fifteen years old and growing like a mushroom.

How did I get to be the mother of a teenage boy who is now taller then me?  Where did those years go?

From the minute they get sucked into the wheels of the school system, it’s practically a blink of the eye and they’re approaching adulthood.

I look back over his school years with fond memories and treasure every moment, even the bad ones.

I remember …

That first day at nursery - both of us bags of nerves.  He never grew to like it and I would always find him waiting by the window for my return.

Starting school - with faithful penguin, ‘Teeth’ (see older post), stuffed in his book bag for comfort.  ‘Teeth’ went to primary school every single day.

The day he decided that he didn’t think much of this school lark and would sob his heart out every morning.  The solution?  To meet his best friend and nanny, and go through the school gates with them.  If only his problems at secondary school could have been solved so easily.

The evening he came home and said “If they make me write the letter ‘W’ one more time …!”  It was soon after that I had the call to say it would be a wise move to put him up an academic year - he was bored.

The time I had to go to the school because he bit his friend on the finger after getting over-excited in a game!  The teacher actually found it funny, and said that he’d been known to do worse things to a friend himself (!), but obviously had to deal with the situation.

Every play and carol service - he played characters from an ant to a granny (in one of my old nightdresses!).  I can feel the tears in my eyes and the lump in my throat.

The Father’s Day card he brought home which displayed the words ‘Happy Farther’s Day!’

The prize giving ceremonies - poetry, handwriting, cake baking, public speaking.  The proud bits of being a mum.

That gut-wrenching feeling when my mobile would ring and the caller display read ‘School’.  Thankfully it was never life-threatening but my stomach would still drop to my boots.

The sad, sad day he left the security of his prep-school ready to head off to the next chapter in his education.

The even sadder days which followed when he developed school phobia (see older post) and was quite simply unable to get himself through a classroom door.

The joy of knowing that the phobia was finally behind him - three long years later.  Seeing him go to school a happy, confident boy with friends.

The pride of knowing that he took his GCSE’s a year early and, with all the problems he’d encountered, he still did well.

Being a mum (even to one) is one of the most mentally exhausting jobs in the world.  You’re learning as you go and constantly doubting yourself.

But boy, is it worth it.

Most of all I remember his tiny hand in mine and how it’s now bigger than mine.

And I know how my mum must feel.

Read all about being a mum who never feels that she belongs. ‘Diary of a Mummy Misfit’ is on Amazon for Kindle, PC or Smartphone with a free app to download.  Now also available in paperback at Lulu.